


The Adventure Of The Bad Hair-Piece (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [133]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Theatre, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wigs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 10:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: I have always reserved a special loathing for Victorian melodramas, one of that era's few abject failures in advancing civilization – but this play ended with murder!





	The Adventure Of The Bad Hair-Piece (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessgolux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'Henry Staunton, whom Sherlock helped to hang'.

I was a good person. A considerate person. So I had waited until we were both in the cab and headed back to Baker Street before I gave way to uproarous laughter.

“That was _so_ bad!” I guffawed. “I have seen many plays in my time, but without a doubt, that was the worst by a long stretch!”

Sherlock smiled, amused at my merriment.

“We certainly seemed to hear a lot more of the prompter's voice than any of the actors'”, he admitted. “And the choice of music did leave a little to be desired.”

“ _A little?_ ” I said incredulously. “Little Betsy singing, 'and I heeeear, o heeeear the Execuuuuuutioner's Soooooong'? Even by the standards of modern melodrama, which are not that high to begin with, it was five miles beyond dire, and accelerating!”

“And the shock revelation of the man in the cupboard, who fell over a broom and swore an oath during his dramatic entrance”, Sherlock agreed. “Yes, I think that this particular work of art will not be gracing the West End for much longer. I can but hope that we never see its like again! Poor Betsy!”

He raised his hand to his forehead in mock horror, and that set me off once more. I could not know at the time that this was that rarest of occasions, a time when Mr. Sherlock Holmes would actually be wrong about something. But I would soon find out, in one of the strangest cases that we had ever encountered. And the hilarity involved was tempered by the fact that it all ended with a man indeed hearing the executioner's song, as he faced the long drop to Hell.

+~+~+

Since Sherlock's blessed return, I had cut my regular surgery days down from three to two, although I was still on call for certain older and important (richer) clients. It was one of my days in the day after the ordeal the night before, and I was still smiling that morning as I remembered the atrocious 'acting' that I had been subjected to. I was also a little sore, as someone had done a most effective method of waking me up by ploughing me into the mattress. From sleep to orgasm is most definitely an effective (and highly pleasurable) wake-up call, whatever my limbs said. What did they know?

The blue-eyed genius was still in my room – our room, as I thought of it now – when Mrs. Harvelle appeared with the breakfast tray. She had recently had one of those 'dumb-waiters' fitted, enabling hot food to be carried swiftly from the kitchen to whichever floor needed it, and Sherlock had insisted on paying for half, as we were on the top floor of the building. Now I came to think of it, she only rarely brought in our trays.

“You went to see that play, “The Executioner's Song” last night, did you not, doctor?” she asked, setting out the plates.

I was distracted from my reply by the walking dead that staggered from my room at that very moment. Mrs. Harvelle, bless her, did not even bat an eyelid – not even at the fluffy bunny pyjamas, which I was almost glad to see back - but had a coffee ready for him, which he accepted with a guttural growl.

“We did”, I said. “It was truly dreadful!”

“It was for someone else, too”, she said. “They were found dead after the performance.”

I stared in shock. She passed Sherlock his second coffee, and he drank it straight down again, this time managing a sound that was almost human. Impressive, for him.

“It is in the “Times” this morning", she said. “The man was found in one of the back rooms. It was only when they were cleaning the theatre afterwards that someone spotted him and tried to wake him, and.... well.”

“It was a dreadful play”, Sherlock said, suddenly coherent, “but I doubt that it could actually have claimed a life, if only because dying of sheer tedium is relatively rare. Thank you for bringing the matter to our attention, Mrs. Harvelle.”

She smiled and left us to our food. I was sure that I must have imagined the slight snigger that I heard as she shut the door behind her. I might have been surer, but there was a rifle downstairs.

“Does the newspaper say how the man died?” Sherlock yawned, coming round the table to look over my shoulder. That sort of thing annoyed me when anyone else did it, but him draping himself over me like a lazy cat was endearing.

“They found a dagger nearby”, I said, ruffling his untidy hair as he nuzzled dangerously near the love-bite which, thankfully, my dressing-gown had hidden from Mrs. Harvelle. Or perhaps that explained the not-snigger. “They are carrying out a _post mortem_ today, so more will be known after that.”

“I love you.”

My vision blurred. I was far from emotional, but the simple ease with which he said those few words took my breath away. 

“Love you more”, I muttered. “Even when you are the walking dead of a morning.”

I felt the change in him, rather than saw it.

“Your first client is at half-past nine, are they not?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said warily, “as always.”

“And the cab journey takes an average of seventeen and a half minutes, does it not?” he purred.

I seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “Yes!” I managed, proud of such a long sentence when there was so little blood reaching my (upper) brain.

He chuckled darkly, and sauntered off back to my room. I may or may not have fallen over my feet in my haste to follow him (I did).

What was left of me arrived at the surgery with barely a minute to spare, and in very poor shape. Thank the Lord for the cushion I now kept permanently on my surgery chair!

+~+~+

I should probably have mentioned another event that happened during the 'Hellatus' in the chapter covering those dark years but, given what arose from it, I decided to record it here instead. In 'Ninety-Three two of the surgery's younger doctors had decided to establish their own practice in the city. That in itself was not unusual, nor was the fact that their patients would mostly prefer to go with them. What had caused the trouble in this instance was that they had used their access to the surgery's records to approach the patients of other doctors, including myself. That had been one reason that I had declined to join them, although I was also suspicious that because I now treated relatively few patients regularly, they merely wanted the fame (such that I had achieved) of my name by the door.

Even had I been inclined to accept their invitation, the shabby way in which the departees treated my friend Peter Greenwood, who was more senior than both of them and should by all rights have been invited as well, would have deterred me. The outcome was rather comical; three weeks later, Peter chanced to treat a certain Famous Personage who had collapsed at a dinner and had stopped breathing. I cannot name them here, but they had connections to both government and royalty, and they were not unnaturally grateful. A month later, my friend was amazed to find himself Sir Peter Greenwood, Baronet, and of course the departing doctors suddenly found that they _did_ want him to join them, after all. Peter, who could wield a decidedly Anglo-Saxon turn of phrase when the need arose, duly told them where to shove it!

I mention this now because if was my ennobled friend who was to drag us back into the death at the theatre. We met for our morning break, and he mentioned that he too had been at the play.

“One of the supposed perks of being a baronet”, he said. “You get free invitations to such things, because they know the newspapers the following day will be listing those who attended, from the top of society downwards. I am surprised that they have not already started criticizing your friend for allowing a murder to take place only yards away from where he was sitting.”

“What did you think of the play?” I asked. He winced.

“It was hard to work out which part was the worst!” he said. “I found myself actually timing Little Betsy's song, and it went on for over twelve minutes. I went mainly because I know Jack – Mr. Rhodes, the theatre manager. I had gone backstage afterwards to thank him and they had just found the body, so I was the first to examine it.”

“What did you find?” I asked.

“Death occurred between seven and half-past”, he said, “and was due to a dagger wound, so I presume the police will be checking the dagger found nearby. That concurred with what Jack told me. The room where the body was found is at the end of a dead-end corridor, and he was stationed at the top of it, where it meets the stage. He was there all the time except during the girl's song, when he 'claimed' that he went to the toilet. I rather suspect that he just wanted to get out of screeching distance!”

I chuckled at that.

“Is your Mr. Holmes going to investigate the case?” Peter asked. “It must be rare, a killing taking place so close to him and him unaware of it.”

“Do not tell him that!” I said. “He will take it as a personal challenge.”

+~+~+

As it turned out, I was too late. I arrived home to find Sherlock less than happy.

“The “Times” lists all the great and the good at that awful play”, he fumed, “and made a point of snarking about my inability to spot a crime almost right in front of me. Am I to be held accountable for all crimes that occur in a set radius around my person?”

Fortuitously Miss Peabody, the surgery's secretary, had alerted me to the afternoon edition of the papers before I had left, so I had guessed what to expect. I passed him a small paper bag, and he looked at me in confusion before opening it.

“Barley-sugar”, he said happily. “And from that shop I like at the other end of the street. You went out of your way for me.”

“I would go so much further”, I said, kissing him and eliciting a blush. “You know that. And I have arranged for Peter to ask his friend Mr. Rhodes, the theatre manager, to come round this evening and tell us everything he knows.”

He gave me what was most definitely a Look.

“Down, boy!” I said hastily. “He could be here any minute!”

“Later, then!” Sherlock growled.

I coughed (it was not a whine, whatever anyone said). It looked like it was going to be a long, hard evening. 

With any luck!

+~+~+

Mr. Jack Rhodes was a smartly-dressed fellow of about forty years of age, and I noted that he wore a temperance badge on his cloak. The word that I instinctively thought of was 'dapper', although that thought was quickly followed by the more unfortunate one that I had known several well turned out murderers.

“I had better start by explaining the layout of the place”, he said, accepting a cup of tea. “As the audience looks at it, I was off stage to the left. There is a whole set of levers, lights and pulleys that the stage manager, Fred – Mr. Sutterthwaite – operates during the performance, and I was right next to him.”

“Could _he_ have left his post?” Sherlock asked. “Or have not seen anyone pass him?”

Our guest shook his head.

“You will remember that during Little Betsy's song – and yes, gentlemen, I know how awful it was! - there were two spotlights on her whilst the rest of the stage was in darkness”, he said. “Because we do not want those powerful lights to come on accidentally, their lever has to be held down for them to work, otherwise they switch off. So Fred must have been holding the lever all the time; it cannot be wedged into position or anything like that. I came back just as the terrible din was ending, and he was still there. But he stands with his back to the corridor, so I suppose that someone could have slipped by him. His hearing is not brilliant.”

“The corridor leads to four actors' rooms”, he continued. “That is fortunate, as the play requires four main actors who... well, they are actors. Not the easiest of people to get on with. Everyone wants the largest dressing-room, their name first on the billboards, _et cetera_.”

“The “Times” names the dead man as a Mr. Charles Staunton”, I said. “Who was he, exactly?”

Our guest sighed.

“He was the man who funded the play”, he said ruefully, “and not popular because of it. Have you heard of the play's author, Miss Edith Austen?”

We both shook our heads.

“Because she shares the same name as one of our greatest writers, she appears to believe that she shares her talent”, Mr. Rhodes said heavily. “Sorry I am to tell you this, but 'The Executioner's Song' is the second part of a trilogy of hers. The same actors, backed by Mr. Staunton, put on the first part, 'Now We Are Five', in a small provincial theatre last year. It sank like a stone.”

“Yet he insisted on doing the second part as well?” I asked, incredulously. “Why did the actors agree to it?”

“They all signed a three-play contract”, Mr. Rhodes explained, “so they were bound to do it. You know how irregular an actor's income can be. I am very much afraid.....”

He stopped, but we both knew what he was afraid of. And he was quite possibly correct.

“Tell us about the actors”, Sherlock pressed. “I assume that the girl playing Little Betsy is excused, since she was under the spotlight.”

To my surprise, Mr. Rhodes shook his head.

“Miss Amy Shaw cannot carry a tune to save her life!” he said. “Fortunately her sister Patricia, a year younger, has a tolerable voice, even if the tune was abhorrent. She the one was on stage for those twelve fateful minutes, and when she ran off crying per the script, that enabled us to substitute her sister for her. And the three other actors were all in the dark, so one of them could easily have slipped away and down the corridor for a few moments.”

“But she is a child!” I objected. Mr. Rhodes shook his head.

“A dwarf, as is her sister”, he told me. “And she would do it, too. She is one of those ladies who is heavily into women's suffrage, and getting her to stop talking about it is a Sisyphean task!”

I smiled at that.

“Henry D'Abitot is a cousin of the deceased”, Mr. Rhodes went on. “He alone must be innocent, however.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. For some reason Mr. Rhodes blushed.

“He, um, has a rather unfortunate hair-piece”, he said, staring anywhere but at us. “I am sure that you noticed it, as he insists on wearing it in his part. It is really, really bad, and quite distinctive. Albert, one of the stage hands, says that he saw a figure standing near the back right of the stage, where Mr. D'Abitot's character was before the 'song', and could make out the hair-piece. He and the boys call it 'Henry Junior'!”

I sniggered, and Sherlock smiled.

“Mr. D'Abitot is about fifty, and of average build”, Mr. Rhodes said. “I incline more towards suspecting Mr. Horace Shallow. He is twenty-nine, very athletic, and it was known that he had had words with the victim, demanding to be let out of his contract. Mr. Stanton had refused. And that leaves Mr. Joshua Gardiner, sixty years of age, who played the old gentleman. He and Miss Shaw hate each other something fierce, I can tell you. The thing is, he wants to retire without the blot on his name that this awful play will doubtless be, and the others want to carry on careers without being remembered for Little Betsy's caterwauling.”

“You said that the victim was found in one of the four actors' rooms”, Sherlock said. “Which one?”

“Mr. Shallow's”, our guest replied.

“And who found the body?”

“Also Mr. Shallow”, Mr, Rhodes said. “He went back to his room after the performance was over, and called out in shock when he saw someone was in his room. Mr. D'Abitot was at his door a few feet away, and was there in seconds.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and stared at your guest. I knew what that presaged, and I was right. I counted to fourteen before he broke.

“Yes”, he sighed. “There was something else. We have a rule, you see. We have sets of slip-on pumps for people to wear during performances, so that they can move around quietly. When I checked the victim seconds after he had been found, I noted that very oddly, one of the pumps was off his foot. I saw it by the door as I left. But when I came back with Peter, both pumps were on his feet.”

“Well, that seems fairly obvious”, Sherlock said. “Watson, can you please pass me the atlas?”

Mystified, I did so. He evidently looked something up, then smiled and nodded.

“And the theatre where the prequel to this travesty was inflicted on the poor public was in Gloucestershire or Herefordshire, perhaps?” he asked.

“Yes, a town called Ross-on-Wye”, our guest answered. “How did you know that?”

“I am pleased to say that the doctor and I will be spared a further performance of Miss Austen's 'efforts'”, Sherlock said. 

“You know who the murderer is?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “Mr. Rhodes, I take it that there is no performance tonight?”

“No”, he said fervently. “It was cancelled as a mark of respect. But the actors are at the theatre rehearsing for when we do re-open. And I am sure you know what the public is like; many will attend the next performance hoping to see a second killing.”

Cynical, I thought, but regrettably quite correct.

“Then let us go and catch a murderer!” Sherlock smiled.

+~+~+

I was not pouting at his not having told me who it was, as we walked down between the seats to the four actors waiting for us on the stage. I was not.

“If you want a hint”, Sherlock whispered, “remember the Colonel Upwood case.”

Oh yes. A case about cheating at cards, that Sherlock had solved partly because a man's coat had not been wet. That _really_ helped. So _very_ much!

I was still not pouting when we reached the stage. Introductions were kept brief, but even so I rapidly came to the conclusion that Peter's friend had understated the sheer awfulness of these bohemians. They were so full of themselves that they would have given some of the politicians I had had the misfortune to encounter a run for their money. Possibly even a certain lounge-lizard whose absence from my life of late had been a true blessing.

“Thank you for being here”, Sherlock smiled. “We are here tonight to say which of the five of you killed Mr. Charles Staunton.”

Five, I noted, not four. And Mr. Rhodes was palpably sweating.

“Get on with it, man”, Miss Amy Shaw snapped. She had long blonde hair and was wearing enough make-up to keep a department store going for some time. “I have a train to catch!”

Sherlock just looked at her. She subsided, scowling.

“Let us speak frankly”, he said. “You all, each and every one of you, had motive. The reviews of the play, and its predecessor in the trilogy in which you all featured, have run the gamut from mocking to openly derogatory. Had you been compelled by the contracts that you had all signed with Mr. Staunton to partake in the third installment of this atro.... work, it would have severely damaged your careers.”

He turned to Mr. Rhodes.

“You, of course, had only this particular installment in your theatre”, he said, “but that alone doubtless did considerable damage. People will remember the "Gaumont" as 'the place where that Betsy play was so dreadful that someone died', and might well be deterred from coming in the future. On the other hand, and sorry I am to re-iterate this, there is nothing like a murder to drum up trade. The British public has an unfortunate sense of the macabre, and I can guarantee that regardless of the, ahem, quality of the writing, many will be turning up at the next performance, if only in the hope of another murder.”

I winced at his frankness.

“So, to the killing”, Sherlock said. “This was an exceptionally well-planned crime which, had the killer not made three small mistakes, they might have succeeded in getting away with. Mr. Rhodes. As we were coming here, I asked you a rather unusual question, which you answered in the affirmative.”

“You did”, he said warily, “although I do not see why having a statue on rollers was of any import. In the theatre, we often need to move large objects like that around.”

“It was important because it featured in the crime”, Sherlock said. “And Mr. D'Abitot? Doctor Watson is holding a gun in his pocket, so I would not risk making a run for the wings, if I were you.”

He moved swiftly, and had handcuffed the stunned actor before he could react.

“You cannot prove a thing!” he said scornfully. “I want my lawyer!”

“I think that that might be your next mistake”, Sherlock smiled. "The other question that I asked Mr. Rhodes was about the victim's marital status, which elicited the reply that he was single. And hence the case was solved.”

“How?” I asked, totally confused.

“Mr. D'Abitot arranges to meet his cousin briefly during the performance”, Sherlock said. “I know not the reason behind that meeting – I would wager some financial problems are involved – but what mattered was that Mr. D'Abitot intended to kill his cousin. And since Mr. Staunton had no children, the wealth would all go to him.”

“But they were only distant cousins”, Mr. Rhodes objected. “Second, or so he said. And he was not a Staunton.”

“But he was”, Sherlock said. “That was the first clue as to his guilt. Mr. Charles Staunton's family comes from the Gloucestershire village that bears his name, which lies some way north of the county town. That, incidentally, was how I was able to place the first performance. Like most actors, his cousin adopted a different performance name, taking a surname from the nearby village of Redmarley D'Abitot. I had a minor case in the area many years back, so I know of both places. The motive for the others was loss of reputation, but for him, it was the gaining of much wealth.”

“His use of a hair-piece has suggested to him what seems an unbreakable alibi. He knows that, during Little Betsy's twelve-minute song, the spotlights will be on her and the rest of the stage will be pitch black. No-one would be surprised if one or more of the other actors had slipped off for a break at this time, but he needs to be 'seen', even though he is not there. So he places his hair-piece on the statue, moves it to his position, and slips away. The stage-hands could only see a dim outline in the dark, but they could make out the distinctive hair-piece.”

I looked instinctively at the 'rug' on the actor's head. It was indeed quite distinctive. And quite awful.

“He has arranged to meet his cousin in his room. Poor Mr. Charles Staunton suspects nothing, up until the moment his cousin sticks a dagger into him. It is over in seconds.”

Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Shallow both edged away from the cuffed man.

“I do not doubt that the walls and doors of those rooms are solidly built”, Sherlock said, “to prevent any sound from carrying to the stage. Mr. D'Abitot drags the body across to his fellow actor's room, and in doing so makes his next mistake. Following theatre rules, his cousin is wearing pumps, to minimize noise. As he is dragged to his final destination, Mr. D'Abitot does not notice that once of them has become dislodged. And that, sir, is where you made your third and final mistake.”

He reached into a bag he had been carrying and pulled out a set of pumps which, I assumed, had been those worn by the victim. He stared hard at Mr. D'Abitot.

“On our way here”, he said, “we called in at the police station where the evidence for the case was being held. In the presence of a witness I examined these items, which were worn by your victim, and I found something very interesting. A human hair.”

“So?” Mr. D'Abitot sneered. “Lots of people have hair, Mr. Holmes, in case you didn't notice!”

Sherlock smiled dangerously.

“It was not the hair that interested me”, he said, “but what was on it. Fortunately the police doctor was able to carry out a rudimentary test on it which proved exactly what I had suspected. In the normal course of events, the hair would not have adhered to the outside of the pumps, but this one had – because it had a thin coating of a special adhesive application that is sold to those who wear hair-pieces.”

Mr. D'Abitot suddenly seemed to be having trouble breathing.

“You only spotted the displaced pump after the body had been discovered”, Sherlock said. “You knew that, if it was spotted, someone might conclude that it had fallen off because the body had been moved, which might as a result lead the police to search your room where, I am sure, there was some evidence of the crime. You replaced the pump – but it betrayed you, by trapping one of your hairs on its surface. And there is something else.”

Sherlock smiled at the actor, then walked over to where the statue was at the back of the stage. He pulled up a nearby box and vaulted effortlessly onto it, looking down onto the statue.

“And what do we have here?” he said in mock horror. “It looks like some form of adhesive....”

Mr. D'Abitot yelled an obscenity and tried to rush at him, but his cuffed hands unbalanced him and he sprawled to the floor. Mr. Rhodes and I hastened to contain him, after which the manager left to summon the police.

+~+~+

“”Heavens To Betsy””, Sherlock said once we were back in Baker Street.

“Pardon?”

“That is the name of the third and final installment of Miss Austen's trilogy”, he chuckled. “I wonder if anyone will ever be prepared to put it on the stage?”

“ _That_ ”, I said stiffly, “would be more than ample justification for murder!”

+~+~+

In our next adventure, I return to my native Northumberland to see an old friend, and Sherlock surprises me (no, not that way!).


End file.
